


Between Myth and Man

by slytherco



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: And also lots of texting, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Weather, Falling In Love, Lies, London, M/M, Making Out, Mundane, One (1) Scared Little Sparrow, References to Drugs, Sexual Content, Smoking, This whole story is just Draco angsting really, Truth Serum, Veritaserum, keeping secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:21:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24777565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherco/pseuds/slytherco
Summary: Draco, lost and a little broken, navigates post-war reality convinced that people like him should not be allowed to make their own choices. To solve the problem of his self-sabotaging tendencies, he starts taking a few drops of Veritaserum every morning.A story about the complexity of choices, repressed desires that come to the surface when we least expect them, and the utter hopelessness of truths built on a foundation of lies.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 113
Kudos: 812
Collections: HD Wireless 2020





	Between Myth and Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [EvAEleanor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvAEleanor/gifts).



> Written for HD Wireless 2020 - Prompt no. 40 - Why'd you only call me when you're high? by Arctic Monkeys
> 
> Wow, I did it! Writing this fic was a journey, one very far out of my comfort zone and I learned a lot writing it.  
> I cannot express how grateful I am for my beta - [Bella](https://archiveofourown.org/users/onereader/pseuds/shealwaysreads/works) \- for her invaluable help, cheering me on, encouraging and supporting me every damn time I was doubting myself, and being a phenomenal human altogether. Thank you.
> 
> Dear Eva, I hope you'll like my take on your prompt! I took it as soon as I saw the song title, I am a simple woman and I love Arctic Monkeys.

_It starts with a drop._

_You’re out of everything. You rummage through the bedside drawer with shaking hands, looking for something, anything, to make it all go away._

_Frustrated, you pull the drawer all the way out and empty vials scatter onto the floor. Empty, all of them empty. No Pain Potions, no Calming Draught or Oblivious Unction. Yesterday, you drank your last vial of Draught of Peace, and you need the Dreamless Sleep for later, to stifle the nightmares._

_A tiny vial falls out, fragile crystal clinking on the hardwood floor._

_A single, cool drop on the back of your tongue._

_You notice it doesn’t taste as foul as it did when they forced it down your throat in a holding cell._

_You always used to wonder what would happen. What would change?_

  


* * *

  


Harry Potter was standing in Draco’s kitchen, looking out of place.

If a week later Draco asked himself how that happened, he would still have no coherent explanation—one second, he was sweating over a cauldron in his potions study, the next, he was opening the door for the Saviour himself and feeling a brief sting of panic as the memories of his trial peeked out from a nook he had considered forgotten some time ago.

Draco’s mother had always said he didn’t have a penchant for hospitality, something about how he carried himself, how he was rude without meaning to be, and how he smiled too tightly. He supposed it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Potter, if Draco’s stance seemed defensive, as the man himself stood rather stiffly and pretended to be engrossed in the calendar hanging on the fridge.

Draco shuffled around a bit and cleared his throat, managing to snap Potter out of it.

“Potter,” he said. “I’d be lying if I said this isn’t… unexpected.”

Potter stared at him for a second too long, with a carefully empty expression that only added to Draco’s curiosity. “You seem surprised. You do know why I came?”

“No.”

Potter made a face. “But you got a letter.”

“I know _why_ you came,” Draco clarified and gave him a pointed look.

“Everyone else was busy,” Potter said cryptically and Draco knew it was a lie.

It was vaguely funny, how he squirmed, and Draco wondered if he was uncomfortable. Potter’s mouth was turned in a thoughtful moue as he stared a hole in the documents he had put on the table just seconds before.

“So they sent you,” Draco stated.

“Listen, Malfoy,” Potter grit out. “As you know, they want to close your case, which they should have done months ago and I—” he ran a hand through his hair, a clear sign he didn’t rehearse his speech before coming. “I want to make sure they do. Without any… complications.”

Draco knew exactly what complications Potter meant; what he didn’t know was why Potter would go through the trouble of personally ensuring said complications didn’t occur. The familiar puzzlement at Potter’s general motivations almost made Draco roll his eyes and he instinctively felt he should maybe sneer, or smirk, or at least school his features into something more indifferent to somehow indicate that he cared very little about this peculiar act of kindness. Unfortunately, his newly adjusted truth serum tugged insistently at his core and soft bewilderment was the most Draco could muster up.

Distractedly, he noticed Potter had freckles if one looked at him closely. He hummed in his head, as he’d just discovered an amusing detail he never cared for before. They didn’t really suit him if Draco thought about it long enough, freckles were supposed to be kissed and counted and they disappeared between wrinkles people got from smiling too much. Potter stood still and frowned, and fumbled with the zipper on his jacket, and Draco thought he should maybe say something or Potter would just stay suspended in his kitchen and keep staring at him.

Potter watched him very closely, always had, and Draco wondered whether he’d ever learned something interesting. He wanted to ask, maybe tell him about the freckles, only to see how he would react. Draco considered asking him to take off his jacket, too, so he took a breath and waited for the urge to pass. It was getting easier, filtering the Veritaserum, especially when taken with a dash of Calming Draught. He glanced at the boy—no—the man, before him, trying to hide his fascination. It was a curious affair, to be graced with the Saviour’s presence. To, once again, stand face to face with Harry Potter, the boy who saved Wizardkind. Harry Potter, the man who testified on his behalf.

Harry Potter, the man in his kitchen.

He wore his hair longer these days, the messy tufts of jet-black hair falling into his eyes, begging to be brushed away. There was also the fact that he wasn’t lanky or skinny by any standards anymore and Draco wondered if it was appropriate to even notice it, to acknowledge the reality that somewhere between killing the Dark Lord and knocking on Draco’s door, Harry Potter had become attractive.

“So,” Draco started carefully, “What is it that our esteemed Ministry wants this time?”

Potter looked like he was trying very hard not to scowl and maybe it should have been impressive, the way he must have learned to control his impulses, or disappointing—the lack of his usual schoolboy hot-headedness felt strangely melancholic.

“All you need to do is sign this,” he pointed to the small heap of papers on the table, “and I’ll take care of the rest.”

“You’ll _take care of the rest_?” Draco arched an eyebrow. “Forgive me for thinking this sounds rather ominous.”

“Malfoy, stop pretending like you don’t know how this works. They send some random clerk, the papers mysteriously disappear, the case stays open for months without a reason, allowing them to drag you in and out whenever they please. I hear them talking,” Potter spat. “Just— I know you don’t trust me—”

“I do.”

“What?”

“I do trust you, Potter, however unbelievable it may sound.”

Potter was staring again. “I— All right?”

“So,” Draco summoned a muggle pen and put his wand back in his pocket. “Where do I sign?”

“Er,” he was looking at Draco as if he had sprouted a second set of arms but quickly shook his head and turned his attention to the documents. “Here.”

“Please note that I am still appalled at how our beloved government functions these days,” Draco muttered, scribbling his signature on all of the neatly bookmarked pages, trying not to think too much about the soft snort that came from Potter. “There. Would you owl me when it’s sorted?”

“I…” Potter looked away and Draco immediately realised what he had said. “I don’t have an owl.”

“Right, apologies,” he mumbled. “Do you perhaps have a muggle telephone? I mean this thing—” Draco pulled out his smartphone and wiggled it a bit, satisfied, as Potter’s brows rode almost all the way up to his hairline.

“I— I do, actually. D’you want to exchange numbers?”

“Is there a way to communicate without the numbers?”

“I’m not sure if you’re being sarcastic right now.”

“I… Nevermind.”

They did exchange numbers and it was strangely anticlimactic, Draco thought, seeing that he had just gotten something probably half of Wizarding Britain dreamed of, and Draco wanted to laugh at the irony of him being the one who actually got it. Potter was stalling, probably waiting for Draco to ask why he was doing it, to learn his motivations and what he was getting out of it, but the truth was Draco already knew. He just didn’t want Potter to confirm his suspicions because Draco Malfoy was the last person on earth that deserved Harry Potter’s attention and he refused to acknowledge that their universe was out of balance once again.

Later that night, long after Potter had left, Draco thought about those freckles. He wondered whether he had them on his shoulders, whether Potter would ever let Draco count them and check if he could match them into constellations. Leo on his back, Canis Major over his heart. Not Ophiuchus, though, it would have been too grim, even for Draco. And Draco… on the apple of his cheek. No. He needed to adjust the brewing process.

  


* * *

  


If someone were to ask Draco how it all started, he wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint an exact moment. With his mother away, recuperating in France, and his friends dispersed after the war, he had found himself renting a flat in suburban muggle London and feeling completely, utterly lost. It was funny in a morbid way, how during the war he would at times wish to be left alone to his own devices, to live out the time he had left in relative freedom and away from the demons of his everyday reality. 

Draco was never known for being careful what he wished for, and maybe that was his main problem because he was still making the most awful of choices, drinking his nights away and waking up in the wee hours of mornings in strangers’ apartments. Fitting in to muggle London had proven harder than he had expected and his defensive pride was just another fat bullet point on the list of things that were probably fundamentally broken inside him. Draco often wondered if self-sabotage was simply in his blood, especially after one drunken night, when an old lady somewhere in East Dulwich asked him if he was lost and Draco said no and finally found his way home after hours of wandering and eyeing the black London cabs, gliding across the inky asphalt and reflecting streetlights like some ancient sea monsters. The next morning, as he cast healing charms on his blistered feet and tried to wish away his splitting headache, Draco searched his mind for someone to blame. The conclusion came fairly quickly because there was no Voldemort to fear, no dysfunctional father to obey and no friends to impress anymore and apparently, even that didn’t stop the unhealthy carousel of bad choices from spinning out of control.

The idea of Veritaserum had come to him after maybe the hundredth time he had fucked up, had said something he didn’t mean, or maybe he had been wronged somehow and said it was fine. Inexplicably, Draco had found himself brewing potions again and it didn’t stop at the truth serum. He had dabbled in Dreamless Sleep and pain potions from time to time when the nightmares came back stronger than usual, and numbness was the best he could have hoped for. They never taught that at Hogwarts—what happens when a person lives on Veritaserum every day, how blissfully, wondrously liberating it is, not having to think what to do or say, not having to analyze the pros and cons of every situation, to just do what one really wants and say what one really means. He had figured out how to adjust the recipe, how to eliminate that pesky addictive side effect, and how to filter what comes out of his mouth with a dash of a modified Calming Draught.

Draco had quickly learned that perhaps being allowed a choice in anything was going to be his destruction and, looking back on every single choice he had ever made, he couldn’t find a fault in that logic. So he took that away and lived a quiet, peaceful, and, finally, honest life.

He was sitting on the Tube one late night, just before his stop at Denmark Hill, and thought how Harry Potter disturbing his numb existence came into the equation and wondered why Potter even bothered disturbing it in the first place. It was hard to wipe out the image of messy dark hair and piercing green eyes from his mind, and even harder to think about that little spark of interest Draco could feel tingling along his spine, just like it used to back at school. He resolved that Potter was going to disappear soon, surely as abruptly as he had shown up, having done his last do-gooder deed to a disgraced ex-Death Eater, and Draco would again be left to his blissfuly numb routine. Potter wasn’t going to get under his skin.

  


* * *

  


**Monday**

**Potter (20:14)**  
No news yet  
Sorry

 **Draco (20:32)**  
I wasn’t expecting any so soon, to be honest.

 **Potter (21:02)**  
Could I come over?

 **Draco (21:06)**  
Why would you want to?

 **Potter (21:07)**  
I don’t know  
**Potter (21:14)**  
Ignore that

 **Draco (21:15)**  
I’d… like that.  
**Draco (21:16)**  
I have beer.

 **Potter (21:33)**  
Food?

 **Draco (21:39)**  
Surprise me.

—

**Tuesday**

**Draco (9:22)**  
You left your jumper here yesterday.

 **Potter (10:15)**  
Sorry about that  
I kind of left in a hurry, didn’t I?

 **Draco (10:28)**  
Yes, understandably so.  
**Draco (10:31)**  
I take it the ‘emergency’ was taken care of?

 **Potter (10:40)**  
My friends act like babies when they drink and Neville can only Side-along so many people  
**Potter (10:44)**  
I sort of had to take Seamus home or he’d have Splinched himself

 **Draco (10:54)**  
Or throw up all over your nice jumper… Oh, wait.

 **Potter (10:59)**  
Did Draco Malfoy just make a joke?  
Wonders never cease

 **Draco (11:08)**  
I obviously did.

 **Potter (11:10)**  
And you think my jumper is nice?  
Give Malfoy his phone back

 **Draco (11:17)**  
I wouldn’t have said it if I didn’t think so. Though it does make me shudder.

 **Potter (11:29)**  
There he is  
Mind if I pick it up later? 

**Draco (11:33)**  
Be my guest.

—

**Wednesday**

**Potter (13:14)**  
I tried contacting someone higher up but they wouldn’t talk to me

 **Draco (13:19)**  
Are there actually people who are higher up than you?

 **Potter (13:21)**  
You’d be surprised

—

**Thursday**

**Draco (15:33)**  
[cam0094628.png]  
Red or green?

 **Potter (15:43)**  
Are you actually asking my opinion?

 **Draco (15:49)**  
Yes. Did you not understand my message?

 **Potter (16:01)**  
I didn’t expect you knew how to use the camera.  
**Potter (16:06)**  
Also -red

 **Draco (16:12)**  
Of course you’d pick red.

 **Potter (16:14)**  
It’s clearly the better choice!  
Why did you ask if you knew?

 **Draco (16:15)**  
To prove a point.

—

**Friday**

**Draco (08:32)**  
I’m sorry about that Prophet article.  
**Draco (08:34)**  
It was a gross overstepping.  
**Draco (12:17)**  
Stop brooding, Potter, it will pass.  
**Draco (15:45)**  
I made dinner. Care for some company this evening?

 **Potter (17:28)**  
I’ll be there.  
**Potter (17:36)**  
Are you going to tell me which one you picked in the end?

 **Draco (17:56)**  
Wouldn’t you like to know.

—

**Saturday**

**Potter (16:20)**  
I found that article I told you about

 **Draco (16:36)**  
Do you mind sending it over?

 **Potter (16:55)**  
I also managed to push those papers

 **Draco (17:19)**  
I don’t know what to say.

 **Potter (17:22)**  
“Thank you, Potter, dinner’s on me” would be enough

 **Draco (17:25)**  
I don’t think it would, really.  
**Draco (17:26)**  
Still, it’s all I can offer right now.

 **Potter (17:28)**  
Seven?

 **Draco (17:33)**  
Yes.  
**Draco (17:36)**  
And bring that article so I can explain why you were wrong.

 **Potter (17:45)**  
I’m too curious not to  
See you at seven

  


* * *

  


It felt inappropriate for some reason, to think that of all people, Harry Potter would be the one who was genuinely curious about Draco. All things considered, Potter should have wanted to stay as far away as possible, maybe throw a few punches for good measure. And yet, they kept exchanging more and more messages, and Potter kept replying, and soon he was calling Draco by his name which unsettled him and he couldn’t quite put his finger on why. The Veritaserum helped, and with the addition of some Oblivious Unction Draco could admit that it should be pleasant, that Potter didn’t want to know about Death Eater Draco or Pureblood Draco, he only asked about Just Draco. The causal exchanges subtly hinted that maybe Potter was a bit lonely as well—an interesting notion, considering he must have had plenty of friends, and that made Draco feel a little proud, and a little bad because of that same pride.

Draco had questions for Potter, questions that should have stayed buried deep among those dark places that usually stored inappropriate thoughts, biting retorts that remained unsaid, and shameful fantasies people had, but never voiced. He was grateful for the restraint his Calming Draught provided, for stifling the neverending stream of _whys_ coursing through his mind every single time they reached out to each other.

Strangely enough, Draco usually could—more or less—predict Potter’s answers and moods, especially when they were face to face. It was unsettling, that years-old attunement, and the way it had shifted. As teenagers, they had used it to hurt the other, to get a rise, a reaction of sorts, and perhaps that stimulation factor was still present. It used to be fleeting, momentary—an insult thrown across a shady corridor, or a sneer shot over their colleagues’ heads and the instant gratification of it landing just where they wanted was all that mattered. Potter had changed somewhere along the way, and Draco supposed he had, too, must have, in all honesty, because their new game felt more like chess than a tennis match. The everlasting bite-or-get-bitten wasn’t the goal anymore; it was the thrill of the chase, every move as natural as breathing but not really going anywhere—a constant, almost playful game of hide and seek.

After weeks of those peculiar exchanges and more than a few impromptu visits, Draco had realised he enjoyed them in a way that was nowhere near masochistic—Potter had proven to be surprisingly decent company and it had caught Draco off-guard and a little ashamed. They were getting to know each other from a startlingly different angle and it stung, the knowledge that a snake that didn’t pay attention was nothing more than a measly blindworm.

  


* * *

  


Potter was like a stray cat that would show up every few days as if to check that everything was where he left it. He would usually come on a rainy day looking doleful, examine everything with an odd intensity, and sometimes do something to make Draco smile. Then he would fuck off for a while to take care of his business. His absence was evident in the lack of takeaway containers in the rubbish, or behind the closed curtains he always opened without a word. It was a rather silly set of little tweaks Draco didn’t know how to feel about rather than a gaping void eating at the back of his mind.

Draco wasn’t sure what exactly Potter did at the Ministry but apparently was of such great—or little—significance, that he wandered in and out whenever he pleased. He never wore a badge, so Auror was a shot in the dark. He had brought the papers for Draco to sign that first time, so there must have been someone above him. He rarely humoured Draco’s sporadic questions about his day, shrugging airily and changing the subject to something mundane like a dog he saw, or how Draco shouldn’t smoke, or asking where Draco got that soft blanket. One random night, he had a dream Potter was an Unspeakable who trained Dementors and when Draco told him about it, Potter barked a mirthless laugh and shifted on the couch, propping his back on Draco’s shoulder. It felt warm until Draco fell asleep that night, sometime in the middle of a staring match with the ceiling.

For the most part, Draco was the one to reach out, to reel Potter back in and Potter almost never turned him down. From Draco’s side, it was the Veritaserum, the way it opened up those parts of his subconscious he usually shut out when sober, how he took and asked for things he would normally pretend weren’t even an option. As for Potter, it could have been any number of things, including Draco himself, and that was somehow worse. Potter ended up spending considerable amounts of time at Draco’s flat and it was strange how neither of them ever questioned it. Potter soon had his favourite mug, his usual spot in the living room, his bad-mood spot in the living room (the one that varied, depending on where Draco was sitting), and there even was a stray pair of his socks, stuffed between the sofa cushions and never talked about.

Potter was all over Draco’s flat and life, he occupied his thoughts, his sofa, that space between the sofa cushions, and the space between going to bed and actually falling asleep. A flagrant multitude of Potter’s scents lingered in the air around the coat rack, in the kitchen drawers, and nearly everywhere in the living room. Draco was relieved his sheets smelled just like clean fabric because otherwise, texting Potter would have been the first thing he did in the mornings, after the first drop of potion hit his tongue.

Draco knew there was one more dark, empty, inhabitable space inside him and it was slowly starting to fill with Potter and his warm smell and dark eyelashes. It had become evident on a foggy Wednesday, when Draco took one drop too many, and when the fog had finally cleared, Draco watched the sun set over Camberwell from his balcony, smoking a cigarette, and resolved to never increase his dose again.

  


* * *

  


Draco kept texting Potter and Potter seemed to be just as curious about the whole thing as Draco was. It was a rather new development, for the both of them, to find out they actually had things to talk about and Draco sort of wanted to point that out at times. He never did, though, feeling as if some fragile, unspoken universe had formed around them and talking about their shared past might upset its delicate balance. In the end, he kept messaging Potter out of the blue and asking him things, or sometimes sending pictures of his balcony, of the sunset, of the flowers he bought for the living room. Potter responded with pictures of his own, showing Draco some renovations he did at his house, a random bar he visited with his friends, and even one time there was even a photo of Potter with a smiling child, signed _my goddaughter’s birthday_. It made something clench inside Draco’s chest so he replied with polite birthday wishes and took a larger dose of Dreamless Sleep that night.

Potter told him all kinds of things. Some of them Draco knew, or at least suspected, to be very private and he felt strange about storing such information on a small, muggle device. And then, inevitably, he started telling Potter things, too. It felt wrong, and also right, to open up so much but the Veritaserum offered it all up for him. Taking the choice away from himself was rather the point and the strange liberation that came along with it was almost as intoxicating as the sight of Potter on his doorstep every now and again. Deep down, and sometimes in the dreams Draco tried so hard to stifle, he understood that it could have happened once, in another lifetime perhaps, where he made all those other choices he thought about when sober, where he wasn’t a mistake in the tapestry of time, like a hanging thread waiting to be cut out.

The most wondrous, incomprehensible thing of all, was how kind Potter had turned out to be. Draco obviously knew that on some level, that people tried to be good in general and that some were good at it and some failed. He thought quite a lot about being on the receiving end of any kindness and it felt so vastly different from what Potter did, it made his palms sweat. As usual, Potter defied everything Draco thought to be true, abolishing every notion of kindness Draco knew how to handle. He had always believed kindness was a transaction and being on the receiving end of a transaction meant being indebted, held back by common sense, courtesy, or sometimes fear. Potter had brought them dinner a total of nine times and never mentioned it, he usually volunteered to do the dishes the muggle way, and he talked about Christmas gifts even though it was only September and kept asking what Draco wanted and never gave any indication that it should be a mutual thing. Draco wished he was brave enough to maybe say, listen, I could take you to dinner if you’d like, but everything always happened too fast and then Potter would show up with groceries and Draco ended up cooking and feeling it wasn’t quite enough.

Potter had taken to grabbing Draco’s jumper from the kitchen on his way from the bathroom to the living room and giving it to him when it got late and cold. He never addressed it, but would sometimes cast a Warming Spell on Draco’s tea when they got into a heated discussion and forgot about their drinks. He kept telling Draco he should quit smoking even though he once plucked a cigarette from between Draco’s lips a took a long drag; Draco stood on the dim balcony that evening and watched the smoke swirl and it smelled different coming out of Potter’s lungs. He couldn’t bring himself to put it back in his mouth after that. 

Draco had never said anything about any of those small things and unconscious touches and packs of cigarettes mysteriously hidden in the groceries when he ran out. He kept accepting things as they were because he wanted them to happen and he kept taking Veritaserum every morning because if he had been able to hide his true desires, he would have told Potter to stop.

On one ugly September night, Potter showed up looking especially soggy and Draco was already in a sour mood. It was late and Potter walked straight into the kitchen to plate the food he had brought and they exchanged a few words and he said something about seeing his friends, about it not going as he expected. Draco made some nasty comment and Potter cut himself while chopping some garnish. He turned around and Draco had a brief flashback to the bathroom incident in sixth year and he sort of wanted Potter to hurt him again, to restore some imaginary, irrelevant balance in their lives. He felt he should maybe apologise and while he was at it, tell Potter he shouldn’t give so much because Draco will take and take until Potter sees it and leaves but Potter backed him up into the kitchen island and Draco couldn’t utter a word.

He snarled at him a little, said he told his friends about him, said he defended him and told Draco he was fucking rude and then kissed him against the island, pulling him close, and Draco just opened his mouth and let Potter take something for once. The truth serum sang in his veins, his nerves felt like pure electricity and Draco immediately knew he wanted Potter to do that again in the future. His lips almost hurt when Potter broke the kiss and his taste matched his smell that day and Draco wanted to know if it would match every day. They didn’t talk much for the rest of the night and Draco didn’t want to eat after that kiss but he did anyway because Potter would ask why and Draco would probably have told him something he didn’t want Potter to know.

“I’m sorry,” he said in lieu of goodbye, before Potter went down the steps.

“I know,” he replied. “I’m sorry, too.”

  


* * *

  


**Draco (18:53)**  
You could come over.

 **Harry (19:01)**  
Is that a statement or an invitation?

 **Draco (19:07)**  
I’d rather it were an invitation.  
**Draco (19:07)**  
If you’d like.  
**Draco (19:12)**  
Let me rephrase: I want you to come over and eat with me. And you could stay for a bit, if you want.

 **Harry (19:22)**  
Surprisingly open of you. Is there a secret I’m not in on?

 **Draco (19:26)**  
Yes, there is.

 **Harry (19:34)**  
I’ll be there  
**Harry (19:36)**  
Would you like to tell me?

 **Draco (19:40)**  
I’d rather not.

Potter came and didn’t push, didn’t ask, and Draco didn’t mention it. This time, he smelled like nutmeg and his hair was still a bit wet from the shower he must have taken. They ordered Indian, Draco paid, and he was secretly grateful that Potter’s heady smell intertwined with the generously spiced food so he could justify his contentment down to how much he liked his chicken curry. Which wasn’t a lie, apparently, since the Veritaserum lay dormant in his system, not tugging uncomfortably on his stomach.

It was the kind of night where they would just lounge around Draco’s sensibly-furnished living room, read magazines and talk off-handedly about Quidditch or sometimes potions when Draco felt like it. It was the kind of night where Potter joined him on the leather sofa without a second of hesitation and it could have been due to Draco’s potion-induced docility but Potter just murmured it was too dark to read in the corner as he settled, his thigh leaving a burning chasm in Draco’s outstretched leg.

It always baffled him, how it was possible to just sit with Potter in complete silence that wasn’t really tense but still created a space where something could happen any minute. And Potter was fidgety, the way he was when Draco knew he’d been at the Ministry, or when there was an article about him in the Prophet—he had a short fuse at moments like that and Draco sometimes wished he knew how to blow out the match.

Potter kept squirming and Draco kept pretending that he didn’t see him bite his lip and that he didn’t hear him turn the pages with such force he nearly ripped them out. And then, several things happened in quick succession, forcing Draco to take back all the times he had decided Potter was boring or noble or a do-gooder. He threw the magazine onto the table and then he shifted closer and closer until his chest was against Draco’s side and hooked his chin over Draco’s stiff shoulder.

“What are you doing?” Draco’s own voice sounded like someone else’s.

“I— Just,” Potter said quietly.

Potter wrapped himself around Draco, buried his face into the spot where neck met shoulder, nearly sticking his nose under the collar of Draco’s jumper.

“I’m sorry if that’s— I. I had a long day and—”

“I know.”

“You know? How do you know?”

Draco bit his tongue but a direct question had to be answered.

“You’re tense. You put two sugars in your tea. You started reading from the last page because the gossip columns are at the beginning.” Draco watched him for a reaction, watched the little furrow between his brows and his freckles, so close they went out of focus.

Surprisingly, Potter sagged against him, like a blanket that was too warm but impossible to fall asleep without.

“I guess I’m not that hard to read, am I?”

“You’re… More complex than you think.”

Potter smiled against his shoulder and it was strange, the knowledge that Draco had started to be the reason for that somewhere along the way, it sneaked up on him just like that kiss the other night and Draco, absolutely helpless, thought about all the ways Potter’s mouth could still surprise him. The truth serum is his system loosened his muscles at the thought, making him lean into Potter’s warmth.

And Potter put his arms around him. Pulled. Leaned back.

And Draco froze.

“Jesus, just relax.”

The tug of the potion was harder this time and Draco knew what it meant but everything felt like a step towards something inevitable and scary and adorned in consequences neither of them could handle.

Potter started to move away. “Okay, yeah. This was… Nevermind.”

“No, I—”

“What?” He asked, a little impatient.

“That was— You can,” he huffed, feeling awkward. “Took me by surprise.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

He tried again and this time, lying in the firm crook of Potter’s entire body felt lecherous and the crystalline silence around them should have crumbled as the city outside kept on living. All Draco could hear though, was the rise and fall of Potter’s chest, rumbling with his quiet remarks, small tokens of conversation muttered into the night.

“You’re… Bony.”

He pulled up Draco’s sleeve and traced his finger from Draco’s wrist up to the crook of his elbow.

“Piss off.”

“But you’re always warm,” An uptilt to Harry’s voice turned statement into question. “I just assumed you’d be cold.”

Draco’s heart did something strange and he suddenly felt very small. “How stereotypical.”

“Can you blame me?” Potter murmured into his ear. “You’re— icy, sometimes. But never when I touch you.”

Draco didn’t know how to answer. His ingredients must have cross-reacted but that was impossible. Depressants, sedatives, opioids, all carefully selected little pieces of a puzzle that were supposed to put him together, fold everything to the inside, cut off any heat that crawled somewhere under his skin, ready to jumpstart his brain again. A car backfired outside and someone shouted and Draco was sitting on a couch, bracketed between Potter’s legs, with Potter’s large hands suddenly roaming under his sweater and Veritaserum welding him tight into the cradle of Potter’s body.

He was floating between sleep and awareness and Potter kept murmuring nonsense against his hair, nosing at his scalp, and perhaps Draco smelled like something pleasant to him, too. The thought had never occurred to him and he shifted to turn around and ask, for once taking advantage of the potion still thrumming in his veins. Potter took that as something else, though, and Draco felt him drop a single, grave kiss behind his ear and then Draco forgot how he was going to phrase it. He heard Potter say something else but he didn’t really care and maybe there was that rudeness Potter had talked about a few times, when on the odd day he would swear not to come again and then never really acted on those promises or talked about them at all.

He turned around anyway, with one hot ear, a tingling under his ribs and mouth half-open around his question. Potter seemed surprised at his own actions. His little insecurities came to the surface in small, silent interludes, like when he made Draco tea in that one chipped cup Draco wouldn’t throw away, when he chose to sit closer on the sofa instead of the big chair, when he was standing at Draco’s door minutes after texting him. Sometimes Draco imagined Potter was on Veritaserum, too, and he fantasised about it right then, while being stared at on a Tuesday night, like in a lucid dream, the distant static of the Wireless left on in the kitchen only adding to the sensation.

Talking was Potter’s way of diffusing such situations and Draco teased him about it a few times but then stopped when one time Potter said something vicious to him and then immediately apologized. On occasion, he would mention his childhood, brushing it off like he often did with bad things and Draco added two and two, surmising it had to do with reassurance. It was a disarmingly human thing about Potter, another one Draco had added to his list, next to how he needed his glasses to tie his shoes, how sometimes he had holes in his socks or how he held a mug of tea with two hands.

Draco didn’t want to say anything, too afraid of coming off as eager, so he reached out to take off Potter’s glasses. There was something attractive about the possibility of them getting foggy, of them getting in the way of whatever the fuck they were about to do, Draco could see himself pulling them off and carelessly throwing them to the side. But thinking of him and Potter as a muggle movie cliché rubbed him the wrong way for many reasons, because Potter was anything but a cliché, with his thoughtless intensity and big, warm hands and nutmeg-smelling skin.

Potter’s glasses clinked against the glass coffee table; the sound seemed unnaturally loud and Draco welcomed the distraction because secrets tended to come out in such silences. He could hear Potter breathe in and lick his lips as he toyed with the hem of Draco’s jumper and Draco felt good about it for some reason, about his innocent, teenage-like nervousness, about his dilated pupils. He was glad Potter wouldn’t be able to see that Draco’s own were like pinpricks, calm and focused.

He shifted closer and traced Potter’s freckles with the tip of his finger.

“Are you,” Potter exhaled, “sure? We don’t—”

Draco kissed him.

This time around wasn’t a last resort born out of frustration, there were no accidents they would never talk about later. It was on purpose, how Draco moved between his legs, how Potter’s hands slid back under Draco’s jumper, how the kiss started out open-mouthed and somehow turned even more filthy and vulnerable. It was a deliberate slide of tongues with Draco’s deliberate fingers in Potter’s hair. He wasn’t worried it would escalate—Potter was being nice about the whole thing and kept his hands glued to Draco’s ribs and stayed frozen in place in case he, god forbid, moved his hips. And Draco didn’t know what he thought about that.

If Potter had asked if Draco thought he’d deserved it, he would have told him the truth.

The fact, however, remained, Draco was becoming adept in taking things he did not deserve. He tried to deny it, tried to fight the potion blazing in his system but the only thing it did was open the one road Draco would never have taken if he were sober. 

  


* * *

  


Potter coming over had become a regular thing and Draco wanted someone to tell him what to do because the Veritaserum didn’t work like that. He imagined Potter would be livid if he ever found out, he would list a thousand things that were wrong about it and go back to brooding and wandering in and out and sometimes texting Draco out of the blue. Draco was unsure how to feel about that, wondering if their lives were intertwined enough that he would care about it. He thought about it when he was supposed to be doing something else, thought about it on the balcony, smashing a cigarette between his fingers and watching a street light flicker jaggedly, thought about it in the shower where the water was just as warm as Potter’s hands on the jut of his hip.

There was a big, scary chandelier of consequence hanging on its last thread over his head but there were also those little intervals when the elixir wore off and Draco didn’t think about the big and scary at all. When Potter happened to be there for it, Draco pretended that this was it: simple, mundane, suburban cuddling on the sofa and sometimes touching and often kissing. He thought about ending things a lot but it stopped when one night Potter had his huge, rough hands under Draco’s shirt and palmed at his ribs and then at his heart. More and more, he adjudged that Potter couldn’t have been an Auror because an Auror would have suspected something, maybe see it in the strain of Draco’s shoulders or the way he kissed back as if it were illegal. Draco decided that perhaps that whole secret twist was just a surreal detour where in the end, he didn’t get to keep Potter anyway, not without casually mentioning he needed to dose himself with truth serum every time he wanted to smell the hairs at the back of his neck.

He didn’t really have anyone to go to. Pansy had left the country right after the trials, without as much as a goodbye, squeezing his shoulder outside the courtroom and kissing his cheek, leaving Draco with a lipstick stain on his face and a bitter taste in his mouth. Blaise’s mother had made sure her son’s name stayed out of all the ugliness and piles of court paperwork and helped weave him an impressive little nest of a new life in Italy. Greg, as far as Draco knew, went completely off the radar after his probation, probably blended in with muggles and cut off all ties with people he had once called friends. That left Draco with nobody apart from the odd stranger, an old man reading a newspaper in Burgess Park or a tipsy girl at a bus stop in Stockwell. His emotions were all very confusing and the long walks helped a bit but left him with a sensation of impending _something_ which, in turn, meant upping the dose of his Calming Draught for the next few days.

  


* * *

  


On nights when he forgone the Dreamless Sleep, Draco sometimes dreamed about Potter. In the dreams, he was always nearby and looked like he was waiting for something and never seemed to notice Draco. He always woke up frustrated with those dreams, where Potter was real and he was not, and they were standing on his balcony side-by-side, or sitting on the tube passing Brixton, or, once, in a cafe, the one down the street, and Potter was waiting at a table, looking at nothing in particular.

Draco stopped taking Dreamless sleep altogether after that—he hadn’t had any nightmares in the past few weeks and seeing dream-Potter from time to time was a guilty pleasure he could allow himself to indulge in and not feel too bad about it. Draco could never make dream-Potter see him and it felt like a secret so he just watched his hands and mouth and didn’t think of it too much.

  


* * *

  


Potter came again on a Sunday and he brought some Chinese food Draco had never tried before. They shared it in the kitchen and on the other side of the table, Potter looked… happy. He was watching Draco like a hawk but his gaze softened every time their eyes met and Draco honestly didn’t know how to handle soft. It felt inadequate, like he was doing something wrong, like Potter was seeing right through him, his potions, and every lie he had ever told. They talked about pleasant things and Potter was smiling with the corner of his mouth and he barely ate, his food going cold at the expense of telling Draco about unimportant, everyday things.

They retreated to the living room as usual, and he wanted to maybe ask Potter if he wanted a drink but Potter was suddenly very close, tracing a finger over his jaw. He steered Draco to the couch by his shoulders, climbed into his lap and took Draco’s face in both hands.

“I want—” he started.

“Yeah, okay,” Draco said immediately, the Veritaserum thrumming its approval along his body.

It was, in fact, more than okay, Potter nestled in the vee of his legs, Potter’s thighs bracketing Draco’s own, and Potter’s tongue licking into his mouth. His kiss tasted faintly of tumeric and his hands were warm and dry as they traced his cheekbones up to his temples, carded fingers through his hair and Draco was utterly helpless against it so he kept kissing back.

Draco absently thought that it was just as he imagined it and completely different at the same time. Potter was reckless and passionate and hot against his lips but Draco never would have suspected how particular he was about it, how he shifted, just so, and didn’t waste time teasing and trying but rather devoured him just the way he wanted. He moved to Draco’s neck, pulled the collar of his shirt aside, kissed his pulse and his collarbone and went back up, his fingers fiddling with the last button of Draco’s shirt.

“That okay?” Potter asked, kissing under his ear.

“I— Yes,” Draco said without thinking, not yet sure what he was agreeing to. The compulsion was there, though, and there was no fighting it.

So he watched, transfixed, as Potter unbuttoned his shirt and his body shrugged out of it on its own, giving Potter a whole new expanse of skin to work on. Draco arched off the couch when Harry immediately swirled his tongue around a nipple and even without the truth serum his every nerve seemed almost sentient, knowing it felt right and _good_. Potter was kissing his neck a lot and told him he smelled nice and Draco thought about the things Potter could say to him if they ever fucked and it dawned on him that one day they might. Calming Draught was the only thing that kept him from shivering at the thought.

Suddenly, Potter stopped and he was leaning away and Draco almost tried to catch him and put that mouth back on his body but Potter was taking off his own shirt and Draco paused and watched. It all felt big and a little groundbreaking because comfort was what they both maybe needed, but he couldn’t help but wonder how far they were going to take it and how he felt about it.

It was still a mystery what Potter was getting out of this, in what fucked up universe he would deliver some papers and, a few weeks later, end up shirtless and flush against Draco and tracing his earlobe with the tip of his tongue. Pity was an option and while Sober Draco did not take charity, the version of him currently palming at Potter’s ribs would have done anything for this to never stop. And if it weren’t pity, if Potter had actually wanted this for himself, it complicated things so much more; Draco could not shake it and that meant the Veritaserum was beginning to wear off and perhaps Potter felt it in the way his muscles tensed a bit because he came to a slow stop.

He pressed his lips against Draco’s and whispered right against them: “Draco. What do you want?” And Draco knew somehow the question stretched far beyond this, the couch in the living room, or the places where their skin was touching.

“I… don’t know.” He cringed inwardly.

“You don’t know?”

“Apparently,” he said, hiding his own surprise. “I think what I want depends— yes. I don’t take rejection very well.”

“What if I didn’t reject you?”

“Then I would accept.”

“So it has to look like I was the one to initiate—?” Potter asked unhappily.

“Just— Yes. Just ask.”

“Can I keep kissing you for now?” He asked right against Draco’s lips, smelling like rain and cloves.

“You can.”

Potter leaned back and considered him “Do you want me to?”

“I do.”

And it was easier that way, Potter kissing his lips, his earlobe, his clavicle, and then sucking on his tongue and not stopping until Draco squeezed his thigh a bit. The feel of his skin on Draco’s own was a little intoxicating and Draco had never realized how cold his flat really was, not until Potter was all over him with his warmth, and hands, and mouth.

He decided the elixir must have completely worn off by then because that unsettling feeling kept growing and nudging his brain with blunt insistence. It must have worn off because if Potter had asked for sex before it did, Draco would have said yes and let Potter take the rest of his clothes off and touch him, and Draco would touch Potter back.

He couldn’t be stupid about it, though, he knew their interactions were building up to that for some time now and no matter how much Draco thought about pushing Potter away, he kept taking, and he kept toying with the steady ring of fire tightening around his neck.

  


* * *

  


Their dance around each other went on for days and it was terrifying and exciting, and something had shifted between them, ever since Potter has made his intentions painfully clear. Draco was growing confused with how his potions worked, and how he would wake up in the morning and think about Potter and how smooth his skin was, how he looked at Draco through the thick curtain of his eyelashes, how they brushed over those freckles Draco still hadn’t counted. At times, his body disobeyed him, especially when the potions weren’t fully functional—his heart would leap helplessly when Harry sucked his lower lip in between his teeth and his skin would crawl when they were pressed flush on any given flat surface and his back would arch with every swirl of tongue around his nipples. Something dangerous was prowling inside him, waiting and keening, growing strung out and impatient and he could see the same thing in Potter’s eyes, and only on Veritaserum did Draco allow himself to think about the softness lingering behind it.

It happened on a quiet Tuesday night. They were texting back and forth about nothing in particular and Potter asked him about things, about his life after the war, about his family and how he got his flat, and only after admitting he hadn’t spoken to his mother in five months, had Draco realized he could barely feel the truth serum anymore. He didn’t give it much thought when he asked Potter to come over but took an extra drop anyway, washing it down with a glass of water.

Potter was soon standing in his hallway and he kissed him softly as soon as the door closed behind him. Draco kissed back and he couldn’t help but notice he tasted like vanilla that night and he couldn’t help but bury his nose in that soft place under Harry’s ear and inhale his scent as if he was drowning. There was something off about Potter, about the way he clung to him with a strange urgency, something heated in the way he mouthed at the tendon stretching along Draco’s neck, something exciting in his possessive grip on Draco’s hips.

It was something new and Draco was fascinated, addicted to it the second their lips touched because this Potter, Draco had only caught a glimpse of, in a few rare moments when Potter stopped thinking and just acted. He would usually pull back almost immediately before that feral side took over and Draco had dreamed about it once or twice, because it was so unlike the Potter he remembered from school. His Gryffindor-ish, youthful recklessness didn’t exactly disappear—it had somehow turned refined and calculating, like a lion circling his prey, slowly and methodically, to finally sink his teeth in at the exact right moment. No, what they were doing was surely the epitome of recklessness, but that was Sober Draco’s problem when all was said and done.

It didn’t take long before Potter was dragging him across the hall to the master bedroom and Draco felt like maybe he should be more thoughtful, maybe ask Potter if he wanted tea and then felt ridiculous for even entertaining the thought. Tea was the last thing to worry about as Potter gently pushed him down onto the bed. His aristocratic sensibilities had to be forgotten when there was nothing polite about the drag of Harry’s teeth over his lower lip, when there was nothing courteous in the way he murmured how _fucking good_ Draco tasted, when the telling hardness pressing against Draco’s thigh was anything but well-mannered. Those past few weeks felt like small-talk, like the agonising foreplay of humid air lingering over the ground before it all dissipates into the climax of a thunderstorm.

All the elixirs coursing through his system evaporated, ceasing their robotic circulation, perhaps clung to the insides of his veins, dizzy with how fast his blood rushed. Draco himself had only Potter to cling onto, only his sure, warm weight on top of him to anchor his racing thoughts. He suddenly decided enough was enough and maybe it was Potter’s smell, or the single bead of sweat dripping down the valley between his pectorals, or the way he gasped Draco’s name as he left a trail of bruises over his collarbone. He brought his hands down to Harry’s belt, and paused, and the flicker of wonder that flashed across Harry’s face was stronger than any high any potion could give, and it should have been concerning but was completely hypnotizing instead.

“Do you— Do you want this?” Potter sounded almost surprised, as if he couldn’t believe it was actually happening.

“I… Yes. I do.”

He paused. “And you’re sure?”

Draco didn’t roll his eyes, not with the way Potter’s tented trousers brushed against his knuckles, just teasing enough to have him bite down a soft moan. “Believe me, Potter, if I weren’t, I’d tell you.”

“We’re about to have sex but you still call me by my last name,” he said simply, not entirely casual about it.

“I— I want,” Draco trailed off, waiting for the compulsion to take reins. It didn’t come.

“Tell me,” Potter murmured and took off his t-shirt in one, smooth move. “What do you want?”

“I want you to fuck me, Harry.”

They didn’t say much to each other after that, at least not words, just all kinds of small sounds swallowed into kisses and low groans soothed with roaming hands. Potter slowly worked him open with his fingers and there was that focus again, that lightning-sharp attention laced with an unbearable tenderness as he sucked him off at the same time and never took his eyes off Draco’s. He didn’t tell him to roll over and it was as unexpected as it was inevitable, like the last piece of a puzzle they’ve been putting together for longer than they'd thought and it was terrifying, to be in bed with your supposed enemy. But they weren’t that, not anymore; it was Harry now and he was moving inside him at an agonising pace and their lips were wet with spit and sliding against each other. Draco left red marks slashing down Harry’s shoulder blades as his nails grazed the smooth skin and Harry fucked him harder and held him close, murmuring nice and tender things right against his mouth, and jaw, and neck.

They were getting close and Harry’s movements grew more and more desperate and Draco gasped as he was suddenly bent in half and each thrust made him moan and quiver, each brush against that sensitive spot inside him turned his limbs to jelly as he shook and cried out, chasing his release. What brought him over the edge wasn’t even Harry pumping his cock in time with his thrusts or the white-hot pleasure splitting him from the core—it was Harry desperately licking into his mouth as he shuddered and came inside him, Harry whispering how good he felt, Harry holding him in the throes of their climax, just _Harry_. All over him, around him, inside him, and Draco knew he was ruined.

They collapsed onto the sheets and cuddling into Harry’s embrace should have been embarrassing but Draco couldn’t help but fall boneless into his arms and Harry held him impossibly close through the aftershocks. They kissed dazedly and for the first time in weeks, perhaps months, Draco did not think about a single thing—his only worry was maybe that they would have to come up for air at some point.

Potter didn’t seem to like the idea of breathing at that moment too, and he followed Draco with his mouth once, twice, breathless, spit-slick and freckled and Draco indulged until he couldn’t move a limb anymore.

“You called me Harry after all,” Potter murmured behind him, nuzzling the nape of his neck.

“I—” Draco huffed. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“Repeatedly.”

“Don’t get used to it.” He said it on a light, almost playful note, not really meaning it, and Potter knew, judging by the way he chuckled and placed little kisses at the top of his spine.

“What about this? Should I—” He held him a little closer and it was so subtle Draco nearly missed it, the tiny sliver of possessiveness, almost invisible but undoubtedly there. “Could I get used to this?”

Draco wished he knew which one of them the question was really aimed at—Potter sometimes liked to think out loud or blurt things without a filter but he seemed to be holding his breath a little so Draco had to address it somehow.

“We can… leave it at this, if that’s your wish.”

“What if it’s not?”

  


* * *

  


They started sleeping together regularly.

When there were no plans for the next day for either of them, Harry would spend a long, luxurious time taking him apart in bed until Draco couldn’t move or make a sound, or sometimes even breathe. He could reduce him to a shaking, whimpering shell of a man, washing out all of Draco’s inhibitions with his tongue and fingers, leaving him raw and boneless like an exposed nerve. The potions high was usually gone by then, replaced by an eruption of hormones and tears drying in the corners of his eyes and Draco felt painfully empty in those short moments before Potter wrapped his whole body around him and kissed his hairline over and over again.

One night, they went beyond anything they had ever done to one another, far beyond casual suburban fucking and something inside him had shifted that night. Draco sobbed into the dip Potter’s collarbone as his orgasm rewired his body and he muzzily thought it might only respond to Harry’s touch going forward, as if he was claimed and marked for life with something far more powerful than the faded tattoo on his forearm. The scarlet letter of his betrayal of all things righteous didn’t burn as hot as it used to and the feeling was so powerful Draco instinctively scuttled closer into the cradle of the naked body next to his. He couldn’t muster a single word and just shivered against that impossible light and Harry murmured something into the skin behind his ear, sounding concerned. The bed dipped under him and then Potter was picking him up and it should have been embarrassing even without any Veritaserum in his system, except that it wasn’t, and Draco’s body was incapable of any higher function at that moment, anyway.

Potter carried him to the large, impersonal bathroom, ran the shower and a few Warming Charms and sat them down on the tiles, his back against the shower wall, with Draco nestled in front of him and surrounded by his large arms, bracketed between his strong thighs. They sat like that for a very long time, hot water pooling around them; Draco’s neck and chest were mottled with bites and bruises, Harry was kissing his shoulders and stroking his flanks, and for a tiny fraction of a second, all thoughts of taking any potions were completely gone.

He couldn’t remember the last time someone has shown him such tenderness without it being sexually charged, without it being just a preamble to a quick release, a little play-pretend to justify taking what was owed. Perhaps it was his mother, years ago, before any familial bonds he knew had distorted into obedience and misplaced loyalty, back when he was still allowed to use his heart for anything other than pumping his pure, pure blood.

He tried so hard to remember and failed. He couldn’t remember a single time.

Draco craned his neck and nosed at the wet hairs sticking to Potter’s ear and stared at his mouth until Potter kissed him, cupping his cheek. And then Harry turned him around, hooked Draco’s thighs over his own hips and slotted them so intimately close, chest to chest, his palms in the dip of Draco’s spine, lips all over his face. Draco thought he might die.

He wondered if that was what love should feel like, if the gaping, pulsing hole in his chest and his toes curling on warm tiles and Potter’s collarbone pressed against his cheek were something he could ever call home.

“Does anything hurt?” Potter murmured against his forehead.

 _My heart_ , Draco thought and shook his head.

  


* * *

  


In the next few days, his feelings towards Potter whirled out of synch like a broken pendulum, imbalanced and unpredictable. He was getting increasingly confused by the effects of his potions and maybe it was all the adjustments he had made, or maybe his immunity was spiking up. At times, the Veritaserum had seemed to make no difference, like when Potter came unannounced that one time when Draco had to vanish a whole batch. It was a stupid mistake—he was getting more and more distracted by the day and Potter only added to that by doing soft Potter-ish things, like wrapping his arms around Draco’s waist and kissing his nape in the middle of the kitchen.

Some days, he didn’t talk to Potter at all, just lay on the couch or smoked on the balcony and thought about scars and freckles and dark marks. Draco also thought about the potion a lot, how maybe he was beginning to take it for the wrong reasons, how selfish it made him and how good it still felt. And he would text Potter while sober and accidentally say something dark or cruel and try to play it down immediately after—it made Harry laugh, of all things, and Draco would smile at his phone a bit and light another cigarette.

On the last Saturday of September, Draco woke up feeling especially restless. There was no apparent reason for his state so he just blamed the latest modifications still metabolising in his system. He tried distracting himself until it passed so he could take again and submerge himself in the usual potion-induced apathy. He read a few pages of the first book he found, some adventure novel Potter must have left, and he couldn’t remember a single thing he read. He tried making dinner and something distracted him and he burned the onions so he just had a sandwich and it sat in his stomach like a tumour. He took a shower, he lay on the couch for a full hour, he started writing a letter to his mother, he tried a variety of things before just sitting down on the balcony with a cup of tea and a cigarette in his hand. The annoying pressure in his chest was becoming worrying, a distraction he found too insistent to ignore.

A sparrow landed on the iron railing and the tiny thing watched his cigarette with an inquisitive gaze, probably thinking it was food. Draco blew out a puff of smoke, not really meaning to scare it off, and it started and Draco watched it fly away and out of his sight. _Nothing good here, little sparrow_.

 **Draco (14:12)**  
What are you doing right now?

 **Harry (14:22)**  
Coming over, apparently

After half an hour, the doorbell he needed to get fixed rang and the grating sound only made Draco feel worse; his heart rate was up and his palms were sweaty and there was something unsettling rolling in his stomach. He couldn’t remember why he thought it was a good idea to text Potter in the first place and maybe that made him a bad person, that whole thing with Potter and inviting him over and doing nice and gentle things without a clear reason. All those doubts faded into the back of his mind when he opened the door—Potter closed it behind him and just stood there wearing a damp khaki jacket and a soft smile. Draco’s chest was caving in on itself at that point and he needed it to calm down, to appease the monster behind his sternum. A familiar serenity crept under his skin, the certainty of his desires crystallizing before he could comprehend them and in the next second, Draco was kissing Potter with a steady urgency he had thought long lost and buried deep under some metaphorical post-war wreckage. It seemed Potter had a similar idea and they clashed a bit, air punched out of their lungs, and Potter immediately slid cold fingers under Draco’s shirt and palmed at his ribs as if to check they were real and still there.

“Your hair’s wet again,” Draco muttered between sucking on Potter’s lower lip and shrugging his jacket off his shoulders. He tried to be polite about it, to hang it on the rack, blindly angling it behind Potter’s back but Harry just pushed him a step backwards so he dropped it.

“It’s—” he gasped hotly into Draco’s mouth. “It’s raining a bit. I walked.”

Draco kept touching the black locks, cold from the rain, and the warm, soft scalp underneath. “You’re infuriating,” he said as Harry kissed his jaw. “No Umbrella Spell. Idiot.”

“Yeah—” Harry lifted him up, hooked his arms under Draco’s thighs. “—you’re probably right.”

They made it to the living room and it was a bit surreal, how Potter slowly undressed him, how neither of them said a single word save for the occasional gasp and moan, and how everything fell into place, just like that. By the time Harry was moving inside him, all of Draco’s discomfort had disappeared, replaced by a steady, simmering heat that burned in the strangest places. Even if most of Draco’s life was a lie, none of what they were doing at that moment felt wrong. He never took his eyes off Harry’s, not for a second, and they breathed into each other’s mouths and pressed their foreheads together and it was disconcertingly intimate, nothing like any of Draco’s past experiences.

Everything outside of the leather couch felt huge and foreign so Draco held tight onto Harry, and Harry felt inevitable—with his searching mouth, and thick eyelashes, and tense shoulders, he was bright and brilliant like the place where the sun meets the horizon during a sunset. And then, Draco remembered the road that led him to that moment and desperately rode Harry faster and harder, until he collapsed from exhaustion onto a firm, sweat-damp chest and Harry caught him, and bit his shoulder and thrust up, holding him by the hips.

They spent the whole day like that, not really speaking in full sentences and doing hot and tender things to one another. Draco fucked Potter on the kitchen counter and it was supposed to be only a food run but it turned out Potter was sentimental about his firsts, too, with the way he left red scratch marks on Draco’s back and bruises on his neck. When sometime later, they moved to the bedroom, they kissed a lot, slow and fuzzy, and then Potter ate him out for what felt like hours and Draco never really understood how any of that could ever become too much for anyone. He ended up slowly fucking himself onto Potter’s face, and then onto his cock, and everything else was blurry and very much blissful after that.

Draco lay half-draped over Harry when he woke up from a post-orgasm nap and stared at him with purpose until he got caught. There were exactly thirty-four freckles on Potter’s face, including the large one over his right eyebrow. Eleven on his right cheek, fourteen on the left one, and eight dappled across his nose and if Draco wanted to be stubborn, he could connect a few to make out a wobbly Dragon constellation but he didn’t tell Potter any of that. He kissed his mouth, and his face, and eyelids, until it got very late and Potter said goodnight three times in three different ways before he got dressed. He kissed Draco one more time and went home, pointedly not casting an Umbrella Charm.

Only long after he was gone and the first lights of the morning snuck in through the drapes, and Potter’s spice-scented warmth had finally dissolved from the sheets, Draco realised he had forgotten to take his Veritaserum that day.

  


* * *

  


They kept taking care of each other in small, meaningless ways and Draco couldn’t brush it off and his potion doses only continued to cloud his judgement. In hindsight, adding sex to the equation seemed like an afterthought and it was strange, to know they weren’t at their most intimate while literally inside one another. He saw how Potter turned tender without thinking about it, how he sometimes hesitated for a split second before doing anything sexual, leaving a space for Draco to say no. He fiddled with the band of Draco’s boxers and waited for Draco to thrust into his palm or sometimes bite his neck and spur him on, telling him to get the fuck on with it. When Draco sucked him off, long and lavish, he always insisted on returning the favour, softly asking Draco to lay down despite the tremor in his thighs and saliva still drying on his skin. It was almost infuriating and made Draco’s chest feel tight.

He was wrong about Potter on many levels and it became more apparent every time they saw each other and touched each other. He used to think Potter was oblivious, too hot-headed to pay attention to things, and maybe even a little bit naive. But Harry was none of those things and it caught Draco unaware, how attentive he actually was, how he watched his surroundings and how much he was able to learn about Draco without him noticing. He watched Draco’s every move and seemed to commit his every tell to memory, probably having learned him like a textbook even before they had started sleeping together. Draco wondered if he should be offended about it, how vigilant Potter seemed and how attuned he was to Draco’s moods. The only thing he could muster, however, was a strange fondness he usually did his best to hide.

Potter knew how Draco liked his tea and how it depended on the weather. He knew Draco hated his Dark Mark but needed to feel accepted without asking for it so he made sure to kiss along Draco’s hands and arms from time to time and tell him he’s beautiful. He remembered Draco’s favourite takeout places, and that he hated coriander and that he needed his food less spicy than he claimed. He kissed the frown off Draco’s face anytime he ranted about Puddlemere losing a match until they both forgot Quidditch existed at all, but knew to let him brood for a bit whenever there was anything Death Eater-related in the Prophet. On top of everything, Harry had also become fluent in Draco’s body. He could take him apart in every room in the flat, turn him into a shaking mess on every surface, and piece him back together after they were done. It was thrilling and terrifying all at once because Draco inadvertently knew such things about Harry too, and Harry didn’t mind and always smiled softly or kissed his temple whenever it became apparent.

One morning, Draco realized Harry somehow started staying over and that he was going to wake up soon and tell him to go back to sleep. And after, they would maybe have sex again, or Harry would wrap them in the duvet and make Draco sit in his lap while he had his smoke on the balcony. Draco would grumble it’s been raining and they were going to ruin the sheets but Harry would cast a Cleaning Charm and leave kisses all over his back. He could never fully predict those little scenarios but Daydream-Draco always knew what to say and didn’t have any secrets and Daydream-Potter smiled, and held his hand and never had nightmares. The absolute last scenario Draco could have predicted was Harry leaving the ensuite bathroom and dropping something on the bed. It clinked like glass but, ironically, didn’t shatter. The shattering sound must have come from between Draco’s ribs as Harry spoke in a low voice.

“How long have you been doing this?”

  


* * *

  


None of it felt real. Draco’s limbs weren’t his own. His body sat up straight and he missed his Calming Draught, he missed every single day when he wasn’t on potions and he missed five minutes ago, when he was wrapped around Harry in bed and not struggling to breathe with lungs made of hot tar.

Potter was still somewhere above him, waiting, and Draco didn’t have the guts to look at him yet.

“Doing what?”

“Veritaserum,” Harry said simply. “I know that smell, I—”

He sat heavily on the bed, all strength leaving him, and Draco stared, wondering if Potter was going to hit him. Draco wouldn’t have blamed him, he would have preferred it actually, welcomed it even, because if Potter actually hurt him, his Veritaserum-free mind would have twisted this somehow, would have made him believe Potter had only himself to blame and that Draco was better off alone anyway.

“There were so many vials in the drawer, Draco.” Harry’s whisper was so quiet Draco nearly missed it.

“I,” he cleared his throat. “I brew it myself, the formula is— different, it’s—”

“I asked: how long?”

Draco bit his lip so hard it should have bled. “About two months, give or take.”

“Were there any other potions? Are there?” He still wasn’t looking at him.

Draco took a deep breath. “Calming draught, Oblivious Unction, Draught of Peace,” he recited them like a litany, all his liquid sins, his Catch-22. You have to sin to be free of sin. You have to lie to tell the truth. One more sin: “Dreamless Sleep. But only until—”

“Until I showed up.”

He opened his mouth. “Yes. How did you—”

“I have nightmares too, remember? I know what a person looks like after… Well.”

“I haven’t had one since…” _You. Us._

Potter’s expression was pained. “Me neither.” He licked his lips. “Did you take it when we— For the first time?”

 _Yes. Yes, I did, and it didn’t work, I didn’t feel the compulsion, I—_ “It… I think it wore off by then. I had a few drops of Calming Draught in the afternoon.”

“Are you lying right now?” Potter asked abruptly.

“No, I,” Draco looked up, not really knowing what to say. “It doesn’t— work like that.”

“Have you lied to me during the course of this conversation?” It was his Auror-not-Auror tone, one used for courtrooms and the Ministry, and whatever the fuck Potter was up to these days and now, it was directed at Draco because at that moment, he was just that—a nuisance to be checked off Potter’s to-do list before he could leave.

Draco could see it in the twitch of his fingers, the strain in his shoulders and in the movement of his eyes. Harry was surveying the room: pants, shirt, wand… Draco. His gaze stopped and its gravity should have hurt, and it did, and Draco was a glutton for pain. Potter was going to leave and never come back. Potter was going to leave and Draco’s sober, self-punishing mind repeated it on loop, one time for every drop he ever took, every kiss he didn’t deserve, and every minute he spent on borrowed time with the man in front of him.

“I haven’t. You know,” he huffed. “You know I haven’t.”

“Would you have said no, back then, if…” He trailed off

“I probably would have, yes. But not for the reasons you’re afraid of.”

“Fuck, Draco.”

“I would think you’d rather have me— that way. I told you I wanted to and— it was the truth.”

“Yes. No,” he ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t feel real now. I wanted you, not, well.”

“But you had me. I was there and I wanted you, too.”

“I thought,” he paused, choosing his words. “It would be more, well. Us. Since we’re.” He licked his lips and shrugged. “This.”

 _This._ What were they, exactly, Draco didn’t know anymore. There were things he knew and things he wanted and there was them sitting in his bedroom and still, all he could think about was that Harry was going to leave. Any minute now.

“There were times… You didn’t take any.” It was a statement more than a question and they both knew the answer.

“Yes. And,” he interrupted before Potter opened his mouth. “You know when.”

They both knew. Those were the times when Draco was his old self, biting and cruel, and when he made Harry laugh with the things he said, when he shuddered and gasped against him in bed, and when Draco kissed him in the hallway and talked about Umbrella Charms.

“It’s not fair,” Harry said suddenly.

“How?”

“You never asked me.”

“Asked you whether it’s fine for me to—”

“No, Draco.” Harry smiled sadly. “You never asked which… version, of you, I would have liked to get to know. You should have asked.”

“What if it’s all me?”

Harry shook his head. “There’s you and there’s… mental castration.”

Mental castration. He called it differently in his head and buried that thought a long time ago with a few drops of Oblivious Unction, back when he didn’t question his feelings, back when Potter just came and went.

Now, he just impossibly, irreversibly _was._

The worst part of it all was Harry, his defeated look, his too-loose joggers low on his hips, his too-young face with an expression that resembled disappointment far too much for Draco’s liking. It occurred to Draco that all those strange feelings didn’t happen due to the formula, that it were probably his true feelings all this time, or at least most of it. A lot of things have occurred to Draco, like how Harry Potter hated being lied to and, ironically, how easy it was to base a tremendous lie on a tiny vial of truth serum. It occurred to him that it once again was the Universe’s twisted, ironic justice, that taking the choices away was a choice in itself. And now, it was time to face the consequences.

He sat frozen in bed as Harry silently gathered his things, not really rushing but letting him know he wasn’t prolonging it. He hesitated over the t-shirt he was wearing that day—it was Draco’s and neither of them acknowledged it and Harry finally shrugged it on without a word because it was either that or just his jacket and strangely, Draco wouldn’t have put it past him. He was secretly glad Harry took it though, glad that there would be something out of place wherever he lived, and Draco didn’t even know where that was, but it was only fair since it felt that even Draco’s clock was ticking in time with Harry’s heartbeat by now.

“Harry.”

He stopped with his hand on the door and turned to look at Draco.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“Not today.”

Draco didn’t hear the front door close over the ringing in his ears. Everything around him was once again an empty apartment, with a bathroom with black tiles, a living room with a black sofa and a liar with black hands.

  


* * *

  


**Tuesday**

**Draco (12:26)**  
It wasn’t working as it should have.

 **Harry (12:42)**  
So you had a choice in what you were saying?

 **Draco (12:26)**  
The potion had nothing to do.

 **Harry (12:42)**  
What does that even mean

 **Draco (12:26)**  
I could explain it better in person.

 **Harry (12:42)**  
Nice try.  
**Harry (12:42)**  
Sorry, that was mean  
I need some more time

 **Draco (12:26)**  
Understandable.  
**Draco (12:26)**  
Also, infuriating.

—

**Friday**

**Draco (12:26)**  
I will wait, you know. I can be a patient man.

 **Harry (12:42)**  
Sounds ominous

 **Draco (12:52)**  
Make of it what you will. I’m waiting.

—

**Sunday**

**Draco (18:02)**  
Just had dinner. Made treacle tart for dessert.

 **Harry (18:17)**  
You hate treacle tart.

 **Draco (18:22)**  
I know.

—

**Wednesday**

**Harry (01:11)**  
What the fcuk were you thinkin Drco  
**Harry (01:14)**  
You know i like u more when youre Draco  
**Harry (01:19)**  
I dont know if I like you now  
**Harry (01:31)**  
Drunk  
Will sleep now  
**Harry (01:32)**  
I miss you

 **Draco (08:25)**  
My owl came back without the package so I’m assuming you took that hangover potion. I hope you feel better soon.  
**Draco (08:48)**  
I miss you too.

—

**Saturday**

**Draco (23:52)**  
I’m sorry. Have I even said that? Probably not. But I really am sorry.

 **Harry (00:01)**  
I know you are.

 **Draco (00:15)**  
I have other things to say.

 **Harry (00:23)**  
I know you do.

—

**Tuesday**

**Draco (17:12)**  
Come over. Please.

 **Harry (18:01)**  
Fine  
**Harry (18:22)**  
Are you on it again

 **Draco (18:25)**  
I haven’t taken anything since you left.

  


* * *

  


Draco’s heart skipped a beat when the doorbell rang but he would rather throw up than take any Calming Draught to remedy that. Harry stood on his doorstep with an unreadable expression and it didn’t matter quite as much as it should have because he was there, he was real and not imagined and close enough to touch, unlike the spectral Harry-shaped figure in his dreams. Draco instinctively reached out to make sure Harry was really there, he wanted to check if all his freckles are in place, if they still resemble his constellation if he squints hard enough, if Harry smells like something different today, something Draco hasn’t learned yet.

He stopped himself as reality crept in and his uncertainty was mirrored in Harry’s face and his frown, and it was Harry who had to make that move, to say that it’s allowed. He cupped Draco’s cheek with one hand, making him close his eyes for a brief second, and placed a single, delicate kiss to his forehead.

“It’s all right,” he said. He smelled like chamomile and his hand was warm and a little rough, just as Draco remembered.

“You came.”

“You have an owl.”

Draco frowned. “I— yes?”

“I’ve never seen it,” he said lamely.

“I don’t send many owls these days. He’s usually out flying and doing… owl business, I suppose.”

Harry put his jacket away and they moved to the bedroom on instinct, not really agreeing on it, and it felt right to resume that thing between them, whatever it was, in the same place it, oh so abruptly, had come to an end.

“He was hooting at me until I gave him a snack,” Harry offered, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

“Apologies. Hermes can be… persistent.”

“Just like his master.”

They were silent for longer than was considered polite and Draco regretted not turning on the Wireless in the kitchen. He distracted himself by adjusting some trinkets lying on the dresser. For as long as Draco could remember, making things tidy was somewhat soothing and he hoped his mind would hurry up and reflect the perfect angles between the jewellery box and the neatly folded pieces of parchment, the even spaces between the two pens and his lighter, that doing this would put all his thoughts in order and he would then say all the right things.

“Draco.” Harry’s voice made him jump a little and he turned. “If we’re going to talk, I’m going to need you to look at me.”

“Right,” he said. Harry must have moved at some point—he was leaning on the headboard, looking at him with some kind of gentle determination as he patted the sheets next to him. Draco sat down, mirroring his position, and it was already difficult, the familiar setting of them in bed and Potter’s hands and neck so close and so warm.

“I had a plan,” Harry spoke, not looking at him. “You’re not going to like it.”

Draco watched his beautiful profile, the bump on his nose and the outline of his lips, and waited.

Harry didn’t seem to mind his silence. “I—” he exhaled. “I want us to take Veritaserum. Together.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Why would you—”

“Draco.”

“Wasn’t the whole reason—”

“Yes,” Harry said, a little impatiently. He was looking at Draco now and while there wasn’t any malice in his eyes, he could see Harry was growing adamant and Draco deflated a little.

“All right. Can I ask why?”

“You said it’s different, yes?”

“It is,” Draco admitted. “I could… control how much I say. I couldn’t lie but…” he trailed off, looking for the right words. “The compulsion to say and do what I actually, truly thought was— I couldn’t resist it and the stronger the truth, the more it, ah, bothered me.”

“I see,” Harry said. “I want it to be the last time if that makes sense? I— have things to say, too and it will be easier,” he exhaled heavily. “I wasn’t… completely _open_ either, I—”

“Harry, no,” Draco turned and he really wanted to touch him but it wasn’t the time yet, not before they could do this, before they laid it all out and then, Harry would probably tell him to go and rot in hell but Draco was nothing if not a fool and fools often liked to hope.

“Summon the vials. I know you have them,” he said softly. “Please.”

Draco did.

Even after they took the damned potion, Draco couldn’t believe it was happening, couldn’t comprehend why Harry would want to be so vulnerable with him after being lied to for weeks and months on end. Draco had to take a bigger dose than usual and he felt sick at the familiar tug, that little thrum in his veins, the highlighted need to reach out, to hold and be held. It was time for their grand denouement and Draco was yet to decide if he was ready.

“Wow,” Harry’s voice shook him out of his reverie. “It… really feels different.”

“Can’t you throw it off?”

“Not as much as people like to believe.” He raised his eyebrows. “I’m starting to understand what you meant,” he let out something very close to a chuckle. Draco sat stiffly and waited for his nausea to pass and then, Harry was turning to his side and taking his hand and Draco turned his head sharply.

“I don’t— Yeah, I do know why I did that. Ask me something?”

 _Why did you come back, really?_ _Will you leave again? Will you stay? Can I kiss you?_

“What is your job?” he blurted without thinking. It was a mild start, something to cling onto while the urge passed.

Harry opened and closed his mouth. “I’m a Consultant.”

“For the Aurors?”

“No.”

“For whom?”

“For the Unspeakables.”

Unexpected and dangerous. Draco bit his lip, regretting his line of questioning. He needed to be more careful with what he asked and he wasn’t sure how to go about it since everything they did, once Harry had come crashing back into his life, was the polar opposite of careful.

“Are you going to get into trouble for telling me that?”

Harry tilted his head. “I don’t think so, no. You can ask,” he added.

“Can you— Are you allowed to tell anyone what it is that you’re consulting?”

“I suppose I could tell you, just not in great detail.”

“Do you want to tell me?”

“I…” Harry grimaced a little but squeezed his hand harder. “I want to tell you. I want to tell you… things. About me.”

The larger than usual dose was getting to him; that, and the lack of any calming agent and Draco couldn’t find the control he had always craved, his whole body was itching to do something ill-advised, something he wanted so much he couldn’t focus even with that grounding hand twined with his.

“Your turn?”

Harry hummed. “I’m… building up to that.” He traced Draco’s knuckles with his thumb and added: “What else do you want to know?” and they both knew it was phrased in a way so that Draco would ask another question.

“Why have you never invited me to your place?”

Harry considered him for a few seconds. “Because… you never gave me the impression you would accept the invitation.”

“That’s it?”

“Apparently. Would you have come?”

“I— No.”

He smiled sadly. “Why not?”

“I would have felt exposed,” Draco said immediately. He asked the next question before Harry could continue. “Why do you never talk about your friends?”

“Because you don’t like them. And you never asked.”

“That’s— true,” Draco sighed. “I don’t suppose they like me very much either.”

“They don’t know you,” Harry said. “Not like I do. And—”

“And I don’t know them. Do you think they would want to get to know me?”

“I think they’d give you a chance.” Harry turned to fully face him. “If we were to… Um. Keep seeing each other.” He almost sighed in relief because it was a save, the way he called the thing between them—not technically a lie but a big, fat understatement hanging heavy in the air. Giving himself to Harry like he did, touching each other the way they did, even this Veritaserum-addled talk, all of it, it was so much more than _seeing each other_. Draco just didn’t have a name for it yet.

“Draco.”

“What is it?”

“I—” Harry started and Draco knew that expression, he felt it so many times before it was surreal to know exactly how Harry felt.

“It’s okay, just say it.”

“I really, really want to kiss you,” he said quietly.

“Come here.”

He tried to pretend it was fine, that he wasn’t shaking with anticipation and that he wasn’t starved for the feeling of Harry’s lower lip between his teeth but as soon as he felt it, indifference began to give way to hunger. This was something familiar, something he knew how to do and Draco momentarily forgot about potions and lies and difficult things, just savoured the deepening kiss until his lungs burned a little and they slowly, reluctantly broke apart.

“Harry.”

“Mhhm?”

“You said I should have asked.” He kissed him again, the jut of his jaw, the corner of his mouth. “I’m asking.”

“It’s complicated.”

“ _We’re_ complicated.”

Harry let out a long sigh; he didn’t let go, just nestled himself more comfortably in the cradle of Draco’s body, making relief flood his chest.

“I would have wanted to know you the hard way,” he said and huffed. “That sounds barmy, I know. I just—”

Draco just listened. Waited.

“If you lied,” Harry tried again, “I would have wanted to learn why. And if you chose to tell the truth I would have known it… meant something.”

“I still would have lied to you first,” Draco said quietly.

“Yeah,” he breathed, fiddling with a loose thread on Draco’s shirt. “But then you’d stop. And it would have felt like I’ve earned your trust.”

Draco sort of wanted to cry, maybe hold Harry a little closer, too, just do or say something to make it better, to erase the dark clouds and the black circles under Harry’s eyes. Understanding was slowly dawning over him like a cleansing mist and the Veritaserum had nothing to do with it.

“It was about choice,” he stated.

Harry nodded sadly. “I would have preferred if you _chose_ to tell the truth. And you chose…”

“To have no choice.”

Harry shifted so Draco would have to look at him—a hard thing to do with shame coiling in his stomach, fear filling his lungs like tar, and unspoken words trying to escape, waiting for the tiniest push to come spilling out.

“So tell me,” he whispered.

Draco blinked, waiting for the question he would have no choice but to answer.

“Why were you doing it?”

The urge came stronger this time, a sign he didn’t want Harry to know or maybe he was just scared of him actually knowing, of having to say it out loud. Draco clenched his teeth, trying to resist it for some pathetic reason but Harry was there, a bright, constant warmth with large green eyes and tousled hair and Draco owed it to him. And maybe Harry was going to leave again once he learned how fucked up Draco truly was, but at least he was going to know why exactly he was leaving. A shitty silver lining, if Draco could say so himself.

“I,” he started and his voice came out hoarse, his body still fighting the truth serum so Draco cleared his throat and pressed on. “I didn’t trust myself. I didn’t trust myself to ever make a good choice,” he said dejectedly. “Every single choice I have ever made has made my life miserable. I was selfish, I was… Fuck, Harry, people _died_ because of my choices, I couldn’t trust myself around anything or anyone, I’ve let everyone down, I did everything for the wrong reasons, I—”

Harry was holding him close to his chest by the time his vision had gone blurry and the urge to talk had subsided and Draco was just breathing in and out, in and out, and Harry wasn’t going anywhere and Draco could have died like this, surrounded by his beautiful scent.

“Draco, fuck,” he whispered. “I didn’t realize… Fuck.”

“Do you remember when you spent the whole day here? For the first time?” Draco shook his head, feeling idiotic. “You probably don’t.”

“I remember,” Potter said immediately. “I remember perfectly.”

Draco tried to bury his face further into Harry’s shirt. “I didn’t take any that day. I… forgot.”

“You forgot?”

“I wasn’t… well, that day.”

Potter’s brows knitted in concern and Draco rushed to explain. “I was feeling… strange. And I asked you to come and—” he sighed. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

“What was different that day?”

“I— didn’t know then,” Draco said carefully and he could feel dread slowly swallowing him and he wished Harry would drop it and he cursed the potion in his veins for the thousandth time.

“Do you know… Now?”

Compulsion to answer squeezed around his ribs and Draco had to bite his lip. “I— think so.”

He couldn’t hear Harry’s breathing anymore and his thoughts were scattered, galloping in a hundred different directions for reasons he didn’t dare think of.

“Wh—” Harry stopped himself, perhaps because of the look of horror on Draco’s face so he just kissed him lightly and tucked a strand of hair behind his ear and Draco silently wondered how Harry could still be so gentle, how he was reassuring him rather than punching him. The possible answer made his heart flutter like a hummingbird and he tried so hard to discard it, he squeezed his eyes shut until Harry asked his last question.

“Would you like to tell me?” He immediately brushed his thumb over Draco’s lower lip. “It’s okay, you don’t have to answer.”

“I want to but—” Draco sounded panicked even to his own ears and he stumbled over the words his treacherous mouth kept spitting. “Not like this. Not when I’m on it, I took too much and I don’t want to be high when I explain it to you, please, don’t make me say it—”

Harry interrupted him with another sweet kiss, to his lips, his chin, the just of his jaw. “It’s okay, I won’t. I would never make you,” he pauses. “That’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

Draco nodded dumbly and there was one last thing that needed to be said and it would all be over then, Harry would make his choice, not the right one, not the merciful one, just the honest one, pure, distilled truth. If it didn’t make him sick to his stomach, Draco would have maybe laughed at the double-edged sword metaphor mocking him from out of his reach.

“I’m sorry. For… everything.”

“Draco. Look at me.”

He did. He drank Harry in like he was life itself and tried to remember every detail down to his freckles, their latitude and longitude, and the soft angle of his cupid bow, the corners of his eyes and the thin crackles of his scar and how utterly, blindingly beautiful he was.

Harry reached out and cupped his face in his hands. “Will you ever take it again?”

“No,” he breathed. “No, it was a—”

And then, Harry was kissing him with a force that made them both shiver and it didn’t matter who whimpered first or whose hands went where, they were just kissing, and kissing, and Harry was frantically whispering _okay, okay, it’s okay,_ and Draco wanted to drown in his reassurance.

They didn’t have sex that night—when Harry moved to unbutton his shirt, Draco reluctantly put his hand over his and asked if they could wait until the potion wore off and he couldn’t decipher the strange, soft look Harry gave him. They sealed it with some more kisses and undressed just to fall asleep in a tangle of limbs and sheets that would probably bear hundreds of Harry’s smells for the rest of eternity.

When they woke up, Draco didn’t forget to tell him.

**Author's Note:**

> I very much appreciate any kind of screaming in the comments, let me know what you think!
> 
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> 
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